


Let Silence Ring

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Multi, Underage Kissing, references to mild violence and homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’d I miss?”</p>
<p>	“Day of Silence,” Bossuet says and shoves a piece of paper under Grantaire’s nose. “We’re all doing it. Are you in? It’s tomorrow.”</p>
<p>	Grantaire pinches the paper between his thumb and index finger and read it aloud, not bothering to veil his disdain. “’<i> I am participating in the Day of Silence, a national youth movement bringing attention to the silence faced by lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people and their allies. My deliberate silence echoes that silence, which is caused by anti-LGBT bullying, name-calling, and harassment. I believe that ending the silence is the first step toward building awareness and making a commitment to address these injustices </i>.’” He drops the paper in disgust. “Are you serious?”</p>
<p>---<br/>All of Grantaire's friends are participating in the Day of Silence. Grantaire refuses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Silence Ring

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written in honor of the Day of Silence, a national youth movement to end LGBTQIA bullying. I have participated for the last three years and figured, hey, it's time to write a fic about it.
> 
> This fic takes place in the USA because I am American and this is all that I know, to be honest. Also, I think that DoS is a US thing anyway. This fic also addresses, primarily, the criticism that I've seen the movement receive from even supporters and participants. The concept of the movement is amazing and often does make a change - but there are huge flaws that confuse people.
> 
> For the sake of this fic, Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet are seniors, Jehan and Bahorel are juniors, Enjolras and Combeferre are sophomores, and Courfeyrac and Feuilly are freshman. 
> 
> This was quickly written and not really edited, but I hope you enjoy!  
> Edit: Fixed some typos and such

Grantaire must have fallen asleep at the gentle lull of Jehan’s voice, because the next thing he knows, Bossuet is shaking him and Joly is sitting across the table with concern pooling in his eyes.

            “Maybe you have narcolepsy,” Joly suggests and pushes a bottle of orange juice toward him. It claims to have half your daily dose of Vitamin C in bright green letters on the label. “This is the third time this week.”

            Grantaire wipes the sleep from his eyes and pushes the orange juice back to Joly. “Just bored,” he admits, ignoring the boy’s diagnosis. It’s no secret that he attends the activism club for Enjolras and Enjolras only, so when he’s not the one speaking, Grantaire tries very hard not to care. Still, he’s been friends with Bossuet and Joly since kindergarten, and they tend to be relatively devoted to whatever cause the group is fixated on. He might as well pretend to have interest. “What’d I miss?”

            “Day of Silence,” Bossuet says and shoves a piece of paper under Grantaire’s nose. “We’re all doing it. Are you in? It’s tomorrow.”

            Grantaire pinches the paper between hi thumb and index finger and reads it aloud, not bothering to veil his disdain. “ _’I am participating in the Day of Silence, a national youth movement bringing attention to the silence faced by lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people and their allies. My deliberate silence echoes that silence, which is caused by anti-LGBT bullying, name-calling, and harassment. I believe that ending the silence is the first step toward building awareness and making a commitment to address these injustices.’_ ” He drops the paper in disgust. “Are you _serious?_ ”

            Joly and Bossuet bob their heads, grinning.

            “Combeferre is hoping you’ll actually participate this time,” Bossuet adds. “Jehan looked it up last year when you came out, but we missed the date. Enjolras made a note to do it this year for sure.”

            Grantaire allows himself a smile – it’s impossible not be warmed by Jehan’s affections, sometimes, and Enjolras thinking of him is enough to set his heart racing – but still wrinkles his nose at his friends. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

            Joly blinks at him, some of his joviality sapped away. “So you’re not doing it?”

            Grantaire rolls his eyes and digs his car keys out of his pocket. “How about I donate duct tape and call it a day?” he asked, pushing back his chair with an awful scrape against tile. “Who needs a ride home?” he says to everyone in the room.

            He gets eight raised hands.

* * *

 

             Courfeyrac is the most energetic, annoying, rambunctious freshman Grantaire has ever met, and the Day of Silence hasn’t seemed to do anything but mute him.

            Grantaire can’t complain. It’s actually almost peaceful. “Morning,” he says to the younger boy as they line up for gym. A friendship had been struck at the beginning of the school year through mutual complaining about the cruelty of being forced to run laps at seven-thirty in the morning. Grantaire found himself grudgingly enjoying Courfeyrac’s company, and even came to look forward to his babbling every morning. “Somebody finally find the off button?”

            Courfeyrac punches him in the arm, but it’s no more than a teasing gesture. His grin is as vibrant as his outfit – bright yellows basketball shorts and a rainbow striped t-shirt that certainly comes from Jehan’s closet – and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. Grantaire has to grab his wrist to keep him from literally hopping away.

            “You really can’t be that excited about shutting up for the day, can you?” Grantaire looks pointedly away from Courfeyrac to shield his eyes from the atrocity of his clothes.

            Courfeyrac calms (slightly) and nods.

            Grantaire would doubt his honesty if it wasn’t _Courfeyrac_ , who is legitimately this enthusiastic about scrambled eggs some days. “You’re all idiots,” he says plainly as the gym teacher blows the whistle.

 

\-------

            Grantaire sees Enjolras between classes. The sophomore used to ignore him on their walks, but Grantaire likes to think that he’s broken down the stone façade. Enjolras smiles back now, and occasionally engages in small chat. Sometimes, he even waits for Grantaire. Their conversations – the real ones that speak of genuine friendship and actual debate – don’t take place in school. Those are usually accidents reserved for the Corinth Diner, for Combeferre’s house, for over the phone.

            Grantaire tries to not feel like a creep, but being a senior crushing on a sophomore lends itself to creep-feeling.

            “Enjolras!” he greets jubilantly, abandoning Courfeyrac at the sight of the blond curls. He jabs the younger boy in the side gently. “How’s the silence going? Felt the urge to speak out for the oppressed yet?” Grantaire laughs, feeling a bit more obnoxious than usual. “Oh wait! You can’t.”

            Enjolras presses his lips together in a thin line, refusing to speak, but Grantaire is content to watch the angry blood slowly paint his cheeks.

            They walk, shoulder to shoulder, until they reach Grantaire’s calculus class. “See you, Enjy!” he shouts as he departs.

            Enjolras winces and Grantaire loves it.

* * *

 

            Bahorel, a junior, is already slumped over in his seat when Grantaire strolls in and drops his books onto the desk beside. Bahorel isn’t much of a conversationalist on a normal day, much preferring the physicality of their friendship born from kickboxing lessons in their youth. Grantaire pokes him with a pencil and sslips the textbook out from underneath his head.

            Bahorel glares, but there’s a smile peeking out from his ire.

            “Still silent,” Grantaire observes and sighs. It’s only second period and, honestly, he’s getting tired of speaking to himself. He hasn’t noticed any other students take on the endeavor, just as he expected, but those people aren’t his _friends_. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. Including that time you tried to fight the entire football team.”

            Bahorel grins and cracks his knuckles proudly.

            Grantaire gives up on dissuading stupidity and challenges him to an arm wrestling match.

* * *

 

            Enjolras is waiting for him when the bell rings. It’s almost as much of a shock as Courfeyrac actually managing to stay silent for more than two minutes.

            “I don’t understand you,” Grantaire admits, and it’s true. He doesn’t. Enjolras is a smart kid, but does stupid things. He’s practical, but idealistic. He looks down on Grantaire with disdain, but every so often, will give him a smile or a clap on the back.

            (And one time, Enjolras let him stay the night after a fight with his parents. Even though he was a drunk, crying mess the whole time, Grantaire considers it one of the best moments of his life).

            Enjolras ignores Grantaire’s comment. The blond, originally dressed plain and professional, has now gained a thick rainbow bracelet, “NO H8” scribbled across his cheek in red ink, and a flower pinned to his curls. He doesn’t look amused.

            “Jehan got to you,” Grantaire assumes, choking back a laugh.

            Enjolras nods darkly.

            “Oh, come on,” Grantaire says and claps him on the back. “Lighten up. You put yourself in this position anyway.” Jehan had tried to corner him before homeroom, but his protests were loud enough to make the enthusiastic junior stop. “AP Gov next, right?”

            Enjolras waves his neatly labeled notebook and sighs.

            Grantaire digs a roll of silver duct tape out of his bag and hands it to Enjolras. “Have fun!” he sing songs and turns the corner to rush to physics.

* * *

 

            Grantaire had hoped that Combeferre would have some sense, but he gets caught up in Enjolras’s ideas too easily. They're both dreamers, but practical ones – Grantare was like that too when he was a sophomore. He’s caught between waiting for the cynicism to kick in and praying that it never does. Bright-eyed innocence is hardly rare, but no less precious.

            “I thought you weren’t stupid,” Grantaire greets cheerfully. “But hi!”

            Combeferre waves and pushes his glasses up his nose, then buries himself in his textbook.

            “Are you ignoring me?” Grantaire asks hesitantly, because he can’t afford to be on Combeferre’s bad side when they’re studying thermodynamics. Not to mention that this is the coldest greeting he’s received from his friends all day, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.  
            Combeferre shakes his head, but remains focused on his book.

            Grantaire sighs and tries to push away the twist in his gut. Nobody gives guilt trips like Combeferre. “You think I should have done this silence thing.”

            Combeferre meets his eyes briefly and nods, then hands him a sheet of equations.

            Grantaire is quiet for the rest of class.

* * *

 

            Enjolras looks angry, but Grantaire can’t help but burst out in laughter when he sees the thick strip f shiny duct tape over his mouth. It’s signed “ _courtesy of Lesgle_ ” with a black Sharpie, which Enjolras has clutched in a white-knuckled fist.

            “Did Javert start talking about the Electoral College again?” Grantaire knows that Enjolras and his AP Government teacher clash horrifically, and make it a point to debate loudly, and often rudely, until Enjolras ends up in trouble. And, of course, Javert knows that the Electoral College is a sore spot.

            Enjolras just glowers. Grantaire takes it as a yes and doesn’t tease him any further for participating in the silence.

            After the cold shoulder he just received from Combeferre, it just doesn’t seem right.

* * *

           Feuilly doesn’t show up to French class, so Grantaire takes the bathroom pass and searches the halls until he finds him with Bahorel. They’re sitting outside the guidance officee, huddled together, their expressions stoic but proud underneath. Bahorel’s knuckles are bruised, but that’s the only injury Grantaire can see.

            He doesn’t bother talking to them – he’s awful at comfort – and instead stops a guidance counselor to ask what’s going on.

            He’ sent back to class with the threat of detention and no explanation.

            He doesn’t go back to class, stomach twisting too much to even think about translating another passage of Hugo’s longwinded work.

* * *

 

            Grantire skips lunch too, and hides out in the auditorium, forever grateful that he’s got an in with the drama club. As long as he provides alcohol for their cast parties, he’s privy to all their secrets. The auditorium is quiet and dim and it’s where he always hides, so he figures it’s just a matter of time before someone hunts him down. If he’s lucky, it’ll be Combeferre. If he’s unlucky, it’ll be a teacher.

            He lights a cigarette and just hopes it won’t be Joly.

            It’s very hard not to worry about his friends.

            He breathes in the smoke and the darkness and lets it smother his nerves, lets it soothe the ache of concern, but it doesn’t work, not really, and he’s left trying to still his trembling limbs.

            They got themselves into this mess anyway, he justifies, but the fact remains that he doesn’t know what the mess is.

            In the end, it’s ENjolras who navigates the rows of seats to find Grantaire crouched somewhere in the middle, halfway through his cigarette. Enjolras joins him in the floor, pats his shaking knee, and hands him a piece of paper.

            Grantaire has to squint his eyes to read Enjolras’s scrawl in the bad light, but when he can decipher it, he reads aloud just to fill the silence. “’ _Bahorel punched Monteparsse for shoving around Bossuet. Apparently, some slurs were thrown around, along with some mentions of Joly and Musichetta. I don’t think it really has much to do with the Day of Silence itself. He probably just took advantage of the fact that Bossuet wouldn’t speak. But Feuilly pulled them all apart. Bossuet is no more bruised than usual, and I believe Monteparsse has a black eye._ ’” Grantaire crumbles the note in his fist. “This entire thing is bullshit, you know that?”

            Enjolras, of course, doesn’t respond, his mouth still taped over.

            Grantaire tosses the paper on the ground and takes a drag of his cigarette, wishing he had thought to bring his flask to school today. “But really. It is.” He blows the smoke in Enjolras’s face just to see if he’ll waver. He doesn’t. “You’re _eight students._ Do you really think you can make a _difference?_ Really? Because let’s look at what you’ve achieved.”

            Enjolras stares at him, the duct tape tugging downward and concealing a frown.

            “You’ve achieved getting my friend beat up – don’t fucking tell me this wasn’t about the Day of Silence, okay? Monteparsse doesn’t _care_ about Joly and Musichetta and Bossuet unless it’s about the fact that Chetta likes two guys and neither is him. You’ve achieved getting my friends in trouble. You’ve achieved fucking silencing _yourself_ when I know you have a lot to say.” Grantaire laughs, shaking his head. “Bet you nobody’s saying ‘Wow, this silence is significant!’ No one is saying ‘Hey, let’s stop bullying!’ No. They’re saying ‘Awesome, now they won’t tell us to stop when we try to kick their faces in.’ They’re saying ‘Whoa, those activists finally shut up. This rocks!’” He kicks the back of a seat and grits his teeth. “So this whole thing is useless, Enjolras, and I thought you were smart enough to realize that.”

            The fire in Enjolras’s eyes flickers slightly.

            He looks ridiculous, too, but Grantaire isn’t willing to go that far. The duct tape still suffocates his mouth, and the flower in his hair is tangled in his curls. The words on his cheek are smeared and unreadable.

            Grantaire’s fury softens. Enjolras looks _young_ , and for a split second, he looks terrified. He wonders how crazy their leader went when he found out about Bossuet, Bahorel, and Feuilly.

            “Why are you doing this?” Grantaire asks quietly. “And if you say it’s for me, I’ll punch you. I’m bisexual, not one of your fucking causes.”

            Enjolras shrugs.

            Grantaire sighs and hangs his head. “Of course I’m one of your fucking causes,” he grumbles and gets to his feet. “We all are, aren’t we? Screw this, Enjolras. Thank God you’re silent today, because I don’t want to hear any of your crap.”

            He leaves Enjolras behind.

* * *

 

            History with Joly is uneventful, save for the wrinkled nose and glare he receives when Joly smells the smoke. But the silence, which was once peaceful and vaguely annoying, now feels heavy and anxious. Grantaire wishes he didn’t feel guilty about the things he said to Enjolras, because they’re true – but wishing never does anything, so he gnaws on his bottom lip until it bleeds and Joly hands him a tissue.

            Joly keeps shifting and checking his phone, presumably for texts from Bossuet, but Musichetta, also in their class and not participating in the silence, confiscates it and speaks to him softly until his fidgeting stops and he just rests his head on her shoulder.

            Grantaire doesn’t know what to sa, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t think Enjolras lied about Bossuet’s injuries, but he might have understated them. He doesn’t see Bossuet until last period.

            He avoids Enjolras between classes.

            Art with Jehan has the same tense air, the same squeezing feeling in his chest. Jehan’s happy, whimsical attitude is dampened by his frown, deep and lines with trenches. Grantaire gives himself up as a canvas for lack of comforting words, so he sketched while Jehan creates a pattern of swirls and lines of poetry. The ink is bright and colorful and the tip of the pen feels good as it slides against his skin. Grantaire leans into the touch, content with the silence.

            Grantaire gets strange looks in the hallway, and Enjolras, who literally had to part and run through a crowd to catch up, reaches out to run a finger along the “NO H8” on his cheek.

            Grantaire flushes and runs, not speaking a word to the boy, and tries to pretend his skin doesn’t burn the way Enjolras’s eyes flicker – hot and impassioned and only a little painful to acknowledge.

            Enjolras doesn’t mean anything by it anyway. Grantaire is just another cause.

* * *

 

            To Grantaire’s relief, Bossuet seems to be fine. Grantaire lets out a huge sigh when he sees him and wraps him in the biggest, most affectionate hug he can garner.

            “You’re all right?” he asks, grabbing onto the boy’s wrist when his balance wavers.

            Bossuet catches himself and slides into a seat, his lips turned up somberly at the sides. He shrugs.

            “Good,” Grantaire says, even though it isn’t a yes, because at least it’s not a no. “Next time that guy gives you trouble, I’ll knock his teeth out.”

            Bossuet rolls his eyes, but his shoulders shake with laughter, so Grantaire thinks it’s okay.

            Thank God.

* * *

 

            The Corinth Diner serves crappy food and has even crappier service, but they’re open twenty-four-seven and the staff knows their orders, so it’s an easy choice for dinner on the Day of Silence. Nobody has to say a word – they’re seated around nine, and by ten, their usual orders have been placed on the table.

            Everyone is sitting shoulder to shoulder, the table too small to accommodate all nine of them, plus Musichetta, Eponine, and Marius. Grantaire would make conversation with the other speaking members of the group, but he’s crammed in the corner next to Enjolras and nobody’s speaking much anyway. He occupies himself with his milkshake, stirring around the straw absentmindedly and wondering if he could get away with adding some vodka.

            He probably can’t, he realizes, because Enjolras is staring right at him and the last time he pulled a stunt like that in the Corinth, Enjolras refused to take a ride home from him. He wound up walking, and Grantaire isn’t going to let that happen again.

            Enjolras’s lips are red and irritated, probably because of the duct tape that he ripped off upon entering the Corinth. Joly had cringed the worst of them all, but Eponine and Marius both squeaked in empathy. His flower is missing and his cheek has been scrubbed clean of ink, so he looks more like himself.

            Tired, but himself.

            Grantaire checks his phone for the fifth time in a minute. “Ten more minutes to midnight,” he announces and everyone smiles wearily.

            It’s been a long day.

            Bahorel and Feuilly are practically asleep on each other, dark bags underneath their eyes and bandages across Bahorel’s hand. Musichetta is doodling on a napkin while Joly and Bossuet run their fingers through her hair gently. Combeferre has a book, but Grantaire knows he’s not really reading it, because every few minutes, he shuts it with a snap and then open up to the beginning again. Jehan is using Eponine as a sketchpad while Courfeyrac repeatedly prods him in the side, trying to get his attention. Marius is texting under the table – he keeps blushing, so it must be Cosette.

            Enjolras sighs and leans into Grantaire. Grantaire tries not to jump, but he does and Enjolras laughs silently.

            “Sorry,” Grantaire mutters. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

            Enjolras shrugs and reaches up to touch the words still on Grantaire’s face.

            “Yeah,” Grantaire says and pushes Enjolras’s fingers away. “Got too lazy to wash it off.”

            Grantaire can feel the rise and fall of Enjolras’s breaths.

            “I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” Grantaire says softly, even though he knows everyone can hear him. The restaurant is empty and they’re all silent. “It’s all true, of course. But… Who am I to criticize your method of activism?”

            Enjolras shrugs.

            “I mean,” Grantaire continues and somehow ends up with his fingers running through Enjolras’s soft curls. “People _did_ talk about it. Not in a really positive light, but it got attention at least, right? Next year, you could probably make it a school-wide campaign. Other schools do that.”

            Grantaire glances over to see Enjolras raise his eyebrows.

            He laughs. “I _have_ done my research, you know. I like to know what I’m discrediting. Anyway. I looked it up my sophomore year. Always thought it sounded sort of stupid.”

            Enjolras glares.

            “Look, I’m not calling _you_ stupid.” Grantaire totally is, but he’s not willing to put himself in that position. “I’m calling the campaign stupid. You have a lot to say and sometimes, what you have to say is great. You’re an amazing orator and you’re only sixteen. So why don’t you just _say_ it instead of make people scratch their heads in wonder over why the Great Enjolras isn’t talking for a day?”

            Enjolras stills. Everyone’s eyes are on them, but Grantaire ignores them and turns slowly so he can see the fiery eyes as he speaks.

            “Enjolras, you know I believe in you,” he says gently. “But this – this is something I don’t believe will help.”

            Enjolras reaches up again and Grantaire catches his hand. “No,” he says. “Stop touching my No H8, this is the only form of support you’re getting here, okay? So don’t fuck it –”

            Enjolras uses his other hand to grab the back of Grantaire’s neck and drag him into a kiss.

            Grantaire melts into it, into the chapped lips and terrifying fervor that Enjolras had about everything, kissing back softly because there’s nothing else he can think about doing. He drops Enjolras’s hand and wraps his arm around the boy’s waist, holding them together and Enjolras almost knocks Grantaire out of his seat.

            Musichetta whistles.

            They break apart, finally, and Enjolras looks satisfied – a little smug, perhaps – and Grantaire is just stunned. The table silently celebrates, all waving hands and wide grins, but Grantaire just checks his phone and hoarsely announces, “One minute.”

            The minute passes too slowly, everyone with a yell at the tip of their tongue, and when it finally ends, they let out a cheer that startles one of the waitresses into dropping a plate.

            “It’s _over!_ ” Courfeyrac screams the loudest and proceeds to stand up on his chair. “I can _speak!_ ”

            “Shut up, Courfeyrac,” everyone choruses, and the entire group dissolves into giggles, some of the tension leaking out with their voices.

            Grantaire gets up to go chat with Joly and Bossuet – it’s been a weird day not talking to his best friends – but Enjolras catches him and pulls him back.

            “I didn’t do it for you,” he says, his voice gravelly with disuse. “I did it for me.”

            Grantaire snorts. “Yeah, right.”

            Enjolras shrugs. “Okay, fine. I did it for you. Because if I did anything else, it’d be easy. If I spoke out, it would be easy. If I ignored it all, it’d be easy. This wasn’t easy at all. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

            Grantaire rolls his eyes. “So you agree that this silence thing is stupid?”

            “No,” Enjolras says indignantly. “I think it’s a good way to show support and raise awareness. Like you said, people are talking – and now, we can talk about our experiences during the Day of Silence and spread awareness that way too.” He traces a finger down the trail of designs Jehan had left on Grantaire’s skin and leans in. “But if you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. You can be my voice.”

            “You really don’t want that,” Grantaire warns and links his thumbs in the loops of Enjolras’s jeans.

            Enjolras nods once, conceding. “You’re right.” He presses a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s lips and then another and another, and honestly?

            Grantaire doesn’t mind the silence that follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the fic! Feedback would be wonderful if you can spare the time.
> 
> For more information about the Day of Silence, check out dayofsilence.org


End file.
